I'd never put that in a story
by EverydayMagic17
Summary: There are some things Varric would never put in a story, because no one would believe it. Yet... It actually happened. Why did he always end up making friends with the crazies that just happened to shape history?
1. How Many Dragons Are There!

A/n: Don't own DAI, if I did, I'd be rich. Alas I am poor... This is the only disclaimer for this story, because you people aren't stupid... I hope. This is co-authored with my sister, Deelzy. She doesn't own DAI, either. Obviously.

* * *

"Why? _WHY_?!" From her tone, the Inquisitor was decidedly _un_ pleased at the sight of the circling dragon overhead. Not that Varric could blame her. This particular one looked extremely large and grumpy... It disturbed him that he'd actually seen enough dragons he had a basis for that comparison...

"Which Creator thought it would be a grand joke to make so _fehendis lasa_ many dragons?! Can we _please_ manage to go ONE place without finding another Fen'Harel damned high dragon?!" The elven warrior snarled, unslinging her greatsword.

"Aw, come on, Boss! This is fun! Remember that roar the last one gave, and how it turned into a rattling gurgle when you cut its throat?!" Bull whooped, getting a dubious look from Lavellan, Varric and Dorian.

"Fine, _you_ get to play distraction this time." The elf snapped, and the giant qunari dashed of whooping and hollering like Isabella when drunk. Lavellan sent a sidelong look at the grimacing mage next to her.

"Yes, I know, I apparently prefer my men even crazier than _I_ knew," Dorian said, with a long-suffering sigh, throwing barriers up for all his companions.

"How many does this make?" Cassandra sighed, leaning on the dragon's skull, as Inquisition soldiers, with many pauses to send awed looks at Lavellan, began the gory work of butchering the beast. There was a pause for the Inquisitor to think.

"Umm... Hinterlands, Crestwood, Western Approach, that island off the Storm Coast, Emerald Graves, no less than three in less than a quarter mile in Emprise du Lion, Exalted Plains, which makes this one the tenth... The only places we _haven't_ stumbled upon or been attacked by a high dragon are the Mire and the Oasis..."

"Did you see how she sent Varric flying thirty feet?!" Bull chortled merrily, yanking dragon fangs out by hand, while the other workers had to use chisels and mallets.

"Don't remind me, Tiny. It is going to take hours of work to get all the sand out of Bianca's mechanisms so she doesn't jamb up." The blonde dwarf, who had a liberal coating of sand stuck to him with dragon blood, growled.

"Doesn't _durgenlen_ translate to 'children of the stone', Inquisitor?"

"Yes, Dorian, as you already know," Lavellan appeared to be in a worse mood than the battered and sandy dwarf, batting away healers fussing over her formerly broken arm, and glowering at where her favorite sword was lodged in the skull of the dragon.

"I think Varric's more of a 'child of the sand-monster' at the moment." the Tevinter snickered.

"Please _ire mori in foramine_ , Sparkler."

"Children, play nicely. Insult each other in a language everyone can understand." Vivienne said, with her characteristic superior half-smile.

"Whatsit matter as long as they can understand it, Lady Fancyknickersinabunch?" Sera sneered.

"I'm glad I didn't have to face this one," Blackwall muttered, handing Varric a vial of weapons-oil and an enchanted cleaning cloth.

"Great wings flapping overhead, screaming, have to hide, sandstorm choking me, wagon beasts eaten, we're stranded now. Beautiful, but terrifying, glad it gone. The dragon won't hurt the scouts and travelers anymore. We helped them." More than one person jumped and yelped at Cole's sudden appearance.

"Yes, we did, Cole," Lavellan said, reaching up to wrap an arm around the spirit-boy's shoulders. Not for the first time, Varric wondered how the tiny woman could swing around weapons the same size as Bull used...

"Freidrich is sad she is dead, but happy about it too. Why?"

"He wanted to watch her, but he is content to investigate the body, as well, Kid." Varric sighed, and sent a resentful look at the scratch to Bianca's finish.

"She was an impressively large specimen. I am surprised that there was so little damage to the group." Solas's mild tones interrupted Varric's internal monolog of swearing, when the dwarf realized that he'd have to replace the sight and arms of his beloved crossbow, entirely.

"Freckles had a broken arm and shattered collarbone, I had three broken ribs and a sprained knee. Tiny's whole chest was laid open, and Sparkler is going to be moping about the damage to his hair and mustache for week, ignoring the fact that he had second and third degree burns over his entire body. How is that only 'a little' injured, Chuckles?" The dwarf grumbled, feeling the urge to gratuitously send a few more bolts into the dead dragon.

"Hey, don't take your frustration over the fact your girlfriends got banged up, out on Solas, Handsome. You _do_ recall the state we were in after our first dragon, I hope?" Varric winced at the Inquisitor's rebuke, remembering all too clearly the fact that Bull had left after a frantic scout summoned him, and returned carrying a half-dead Inquisitor in one arm, and supporting a staggering Cassandra on the other, while the scout acted as a, rather terrified, living crutch for Vivienne. It's taken the best healers in Skyhold a week to get them back on their feet.

"Hey, Boss!"

"What _now_ , Bull?"

"I just thought of something!"

"Uh-oh," Sera whispered to Varric, who whole-heartedly agreed.

"We still have Corypheus' dragon to fight!"

"Go jump in the Mire and drown, Bull!"


	2. You've Got Mail

Varric watched in shock and awe as Hawke saunters straight up to a templar, her staff in plain view, and stuffed a copy of Anders' manifesto right through the helm slit.

"Delivery for Knight-Captain Cullen." She smirked.

"Serah Hawke?!" Sputtered the hapless templar, fumbling for the papers, then giving up, and pulling of his helmet.

"Oh, so sorry, I thought you helmet was a mailbox." Next to Varric, Isabela was doubled over, wheezing for breath through her laughter, as Anders guided her out of the Gallows, mouth twitching.

"I told you I would get it to Cullen," Hawke chortled on the ferry back to the docks.

"That was... His _face_!" The pirate gasped, and high-fived Hawke.

"Pay up, Handsome," Hawke held a hand out demandingly at Varric, who willing handed over three sovereigns.

"Never again will I bet against you being able to render me speechless, Chuckles."

The noise in the Hanged Man dropped briefly, prompting Hawke to glance at the door. Knight-Captain Cullen had entered, with a look of decided consternation on his face.

"Oh, shit," Was Isabela's comment. Hawke just took another swallow of the piss-poor ale.

"Nah, he's in leathers, so it isn't official business, Gorgeous." Next to the pirate, Fenris shook his head in disbelief.

"Hawke, I stand by my statement that you are utterly insane, and have no sense of self-preservation, whatsoever." An awkward cough from Cullen, who'd finally managed to get though the crowds prompted Hawke to lean over backwards so she could see him.

"Knight-Captain Cullen, to what to I owe the pleasure? Please, grab a seat, we're about to start another round of wicked grace." She purred, dropping her voice seductively, just to watch the templar flush and stammer.

"I...ah, I r-received an... unusual delivery...Ser Rylen said you had shoved it in his helmet... while he was still wearing it."

"Oh, _that_. I thought his helmet was a mailbox, actually. Templar helmet really do resemble them, I'm afraid."

"Hawke." Cullen's tone was a mixture of exasperation and reluctant amusement.

"Cullen?" She mimicked mockingly.

"Please refrain from shoving inflammatory writings in the helmets of my men."

"Awww..." She was fixed with a stern look, which was answered with a pout. "Fine... Ser Spoilsport."

"Good. Farewell, Champion."

Two days later, he was back.

"I thought I asked you not to shove things in my men's helmets, Hawke." The woman in question waved a hand absently at him, staring fixedly at Varric.

"Hawke... Hawke, what are you doing?" Cullen asked, in bewilderment. Varric blinked, and Hawke threw up her arms in a gesture of triumph, narrowly missing hitting Cullen in the face.

"Winning a staring contest with Varric, of course."

"Best eleven out of twenty one?"

"Hawke, you shoved a letter for me in the helmet of one of my templars patrolling Hightown."

"And?"

"I asked you not to."

"Nooooo, you asked me 'Please refrain from shoving inflammatory writings in the helmets', Cullen." Hawke smirked.

"Maker's Breath, I forgot how annoying your perfect memory can be. Please do not shove anything in the helmets of my men."

"Maker! Hawke, I _asked_ -" Cullen huffed, in irritation.

" _I_ didn't do it, Cullen, Isabela did." Hawke said, her tone of perfect innocence ruined by the smirk she wasn't bothering to hide.

"Okay, please do not put anything in my men's helmets, nor have anyone else do so for you."

"Hawke..."

"It was one of your female templars."

"None of my people should have anything shoved in their helmets by you or anyone else."

"Really, Hawke?"

"Carver is my brother, he's not a person."

"Maker's Breath, Hawke!" Cullen was sounding dangerously close to a wail.

"What? I shoved it in his breastplate, not his helmet."

"I haven't assaulted a templar with paper today, what are you doing in the Hanged Man, Cullen?"

"I give up. I just give up. You are going to keep harassing my people no matter what I do, so I here to get very, very drunk."

"Well, it's Wicked Grace night; we take turns buying rounds..."

"Why not?"

Varric snickered as he entered Hawke's manor, through the garden entrance. The sight of the helmet, on top of a box and post never failed to amuse him. Cullen had proved to be a horrid player of Wicked Grace, and even worse when drunk. The Knight-Captain had, by the end of the night, lost everything but his smalls, and that only because Hawke had taken pity and let him keep them. Now all letters addressed to Hawke ended up going through the slit of the helm, and into a locked box, when no one was home to pick them up.

"What's so funny, Handsome?"

"Just your mailbox, Chuckles."

"Don't you just love it?" Hawke beamed

 **A/N: Because my sister and I get into odd conversations, while watching each other game... And the Templar Helmets look like mailboxes... Don't judge us! ~EM17 and Deelzy**


	3. Hug-quisitor

The Inquisitor's 'Inner Circle' quickly came to realize that Adaar was very... physical in demonstrating her affection. In fact, Varric's not-so random nickname for her quickly became 'the hug-quisitor. Given her stature, which was large and strong even for a qunari woman, and the muscles guilt up from using a maul with a head heavier than Sera, this was sometimes a matter of some dismay...

"Josie!" The Ambassador winced as she was picked up and spun around, in the middle of Skyhold's main hall, Adaar had been gone for two weeks, in the Fallow Mire, and had just returned. This, of course, meant that she smelt of swamp-reek and rotting flesh, given the undead infestation the area suffered.

"Those water-proofed coats and special tents you sent us worked a charm! No leaks waking you up at night, and I wont have to spend hours scouring rust off my armor!" Adaar said cheerfully, as a watching noblewoman cooed at the 'adorably romantic picture' they made. Another rumor to squash. Lovely.

"I'm...glad...Inquisitor...but- can't _breathe_!"

"Oops..." Sheepishly Adaar set the Antivan down, and straightened the ruffles and poofs of fabric she'd crushed. "Sorry, Josie."

"Just... take a bath, Adaar. Please. Before someone passes out from the smell."

"Heh... It's been so long, that I forgot what it was like to _not_ stink..." The qunari woman wandered off to her quarters- Josie was quite grateful to whatever long-dead builder that had manage to get hot-and-cold running water throughout the keep. Otherwise the Inquisitor would've insisted on bathing in the communal hot-spring fed public baths under the ground floor, rather than in her quarters, lest she discomfit the servants she still protested having. Given the sheer amount of unhygienic _filth_ caked on her, it might've caused an Inquisition-wide health crisis.

"Cullen!"

"Maker's Breath" Cullen sighed near-silently, to himself. "-oof!" The Commander barely had time to brace himself before his lover swept him into an embrace that drove all the air from his lungs, despite the full plate he wore. It was the first private moment they'd gotten since Adamant, and he clutched her back just as tight as he could, ignoring the clangs and screeches an embrace between two warriors in plate brought. It was still slightly odd to hold a woman so much taller than him, but he was getting used to her resting her chin on his head.

"Seeing you fall..." Cullen choked out. There was an odd pinging noise from inside his armor, as her arms tightened. He began to worry as he felt the dent on the breastplate pressing harder on the bruises beneath it, as his armor deformed subtly. Adaar took a step back holding him at arms' length -her arms that was- looking him over. A large, callused hand touched the bandages on his shoulder, then the hole in the breastplate where a crossbow bolt had been barely stopped by the chain shirt beneath, right over his heart.

"I'm supposed to be the one that gets beat up, and nearly killed, in this relationship, Cullen. I have to be on the front lines, but the general shouldn't be in the thick of the fight." The words were rebuking, but the very qunari gesture of lowering her forehead to rest on his, and the shaking of her voice spoke volumes.

"Love-ah!" Cullen yelped as the sudden weight of his lover passing out on him, took him to the ground with a clatter.

"A little help? Someone?" He called plaintively. Between seven feet of solid muscle and bone, and full battle-plate to cover said muscle and bone, there was no way one battle-weary man could move Adaar off of him. Especially when he was pinned with one arm under their combined weight.

"Bull! Stop laughing!"

"Don't you dare, Inquisi-" The hug cut Varric off mid-threat. The Inquisitor ignored him, kicking the assassin sent by Bianca's family, already dead, and in two pieces, off the battlements, into the garden, refusing to set the dwarf, still clutching Bianca-the-crossbow, down. She took the stairs downwards three at a time- not reassuring for her dwarven passenger, who already disliked heights- her grip making even sturdy dwarven ribs protest.

"Ah...Your worship? Why are you clutching Varric to you, bridal style?" Harding asked, a suppressed laugh in her voice.

"Someone just tried to _assassinate_ MY favorite Varric." Adaar growled, the snarl sounding ominously dragon-like to the resigned story-teller.

"WHAT?!" Hawke, just exiting the tavern shrieked in outrage.

"Aw, shit, Shorty. Did you _have_ to tell her?"

"You just got jumped by a guy with poisoned daggers, and you're complaining about Hawke finding out?" Adaar snapped, as Bull, Krem, and Dalish, as well as that blonde elven man the Crows had once hired Hawke to kill, were attracted by the bustle.

"Who hired an assassin to go after Varric?" Hawke demanded, her voice calm, but with the expression that promised that someone was going to die in the most painfully humiliating manner she could think of.

"Uh...Bianca's family, probably. Again." Varric winced, he shouldn't've added the last part, as his two closest friends' faces blackened further.

"Bull, Leliana, Zevran, you are going to make sure that every assassin organization in Thedas knows that it is _stupidly suicidal_ to take a contract on Varric, or anyone else in the Inquisition, for that matter. Hawke, come with me." Adaar said, voice making those addressed snap to attention, even Zevran, for whom the act was decidedly out of character.

"Where are we going?" Hawke asked, with a blood-thirsty smirk.

"We're going to contact my former company. Shokrokar will be delighted to...persuade... those who sent the assassin, to never do so again."

"Ah... Inquisitor? Can you put me down now?" Varric asked, trying to free himself from her arms. This only succeeded in making Hawke take Bianca from him, and sling her over her shoulder.

"No."

"What if I used 'please'?"

"No." She was crossing the crowded main hall, Hawke at her side, on hand reaching up to rest on Varric's arm, as if reassuring herself that he was _there_. This, of course meant, that _everyone_ saw the humiliating sight of Varric being cradled like a child, and given the smirks on both Dorian and Cassandra's lips, he was _never_ going to hear the end of it.

"What about if I promise to restrain myself from baiting the Seeker for a week?" He bargained, desperately.

"Ah, no."

"A month?"

"Nope." The two women chorused, going up the spiral stairs that lead to Adaar's personal quarters.

"Varric, we're not going to let you out of our sight, for a while." Hawke said, firmly. Trapped between the women, on the couch, Varric wondered if this was revenge for his -perhaps slightly over-protectiveness when assassins had made an attempt on both of them last month...Maybe having the entire company of Chargers watch them 24/7 had been a bit overboard...

On reflection, letting the Inquisitor see how depressed finding the Divine's farewell message had made her, probably wasn't the wisest choice, Leliana mused, wondering how much pressure her ribs could take without damage. At least Adaar had waited until they were in the Inquisitor's travel-pavilion to hug her. Seeing the spymaster rapidly-turning blue in the face from lack of air wouldn't improve the mysterious awe she tried to cultivate from the Inquisition's forces.

"Human bones...aren't as sturdy as...qunari or... dwarven..." She wheezed.

"Oops...Damn. I was trying to be gentle..." Adaar said, the grey skin of her cheeks turning purple-ish with her blush, as she eased up

"No harm done," Leliana said, with a gentle smile, "I appreciate the gesture and sentiment." She squeezed the much-taller woman back, to emphasize her words. The Inquisitor had seen her through her crisis of faith in Haven, and self-recrimination after the town's destruction, built her back up. In fact, Adaar was the only one Leliana trusted herself to let down her guard, and be weak with, as the Mercenary-Captain-turned-Symbol-of-Hope-and-World-Leader well understood the price of command.

"I'm glad. You're one of my dearest friends, Leli," the affectionate nickname was one that would've earned a dagger from anyone else but the Warden or Josie. "Besides, most of the other complain when I hug them. They seem to think it ruins their dignity."

"Which is why you delight in doing so." The broad-toothed grin and waggled eyebrows surprised a genuine laugh out of the Spymaster.

"Cass, Vivi and Solas need to be ruffled every so often, lest they get stiff and boring."

"SOLAS!"

" _Ma halani-_ " the one addressed muttered. The cheerful bellow from the rookery made the elf close his eyes, and tense, despite knowing that _Tarasyl'an Te'las_ , Skyhold, would protect it's- _insane_ -new mistress as she jumped down from the third story, to land next to him.

"Umph," he grunted as he was unexpectedly wrapped in steel-corded arms, lifted in the hug and spun around by a laughing Inquisitor, until thoroughly dizzy.

"Wha-?" He managed to choke out. Usually when Adaar called for him, and leapt down, something Dorian of Leliana reported to her had given her a question on magic, for which she always sought his expertise.

"You were looking particularly solemn, so I thought I'd cheer you up!" the seven-foot tall bundle of irrepressibility and energy said, _finally_ setting him down. Solas gave her the look such nonsense deserved, raising a brow sternly.

"And what prompted you to think assaulting my person in such a manner would cheer me up?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe the fact you're always more cheerful after we share a tent in the field, and I wake up with an elven octopus wrapped around me?" She teased cheerfully, making him flush. "Or, maybe the fact that you're smiling, despite yourself, and are still hugging me back, Solas?"

The mage hastily let go, cursing himself. He hadn't realized how lonely, and touch-starved he'd been, until the qunari- no the correct term was 'Vashoth'- warrior woman, with her surprising perceptiveness hidden beneath a brash facade, and a refusal to be intimidated by his glares and intellect had insisted on invading his personal space.

"Come back here, you." Adaar chuckled, and patted the couch next to her, as she flopped down, making the piece of sturdy furniture complain at the impact. "It's time for another lesson, Solas, don't be a grump, teach me!" He permitted himself a small smile, as he sat next to her, and, as was her custom, the Inquisitor wrapped an arm around him, and dragged him so he was almost on her lap. For some reason, _this_ position was how she like to sit, as he taught her ancient elvhen, and she used his legs as a pillow, carefully because of her horns, to teach him Qunlat in exchange. Her reasoning when he'd asked, had been full of the characteristic insight into people that she showed only around those she trusted and cared for.

"A language says a lot about a people. It defines how they think, in their most private moments, so learning another's tongue will help you to understand them, which in turn creates tolerance, if not acceptance." It'd been after one of his arguments with the Iron Bull, about the Qun. It was rare that Solas found himself wrong-footed, or taught a lesson, but both happened with surprising frequency around Adaar... An almost painfully tight squeeze- she was getting better at regulating her strength around the smaller races, thankfully- got his attention.

"Lethallan..." Solas snorted at the endearment from one of his few friends.

"Lethallin," he corrected. "Lethallan is for females, lethallin for males." With that, he began explaining some of the gender-differentiated word-forms in the elvhen language.

"Inquisitor!" Vivienne's yelp was flustered for once. "Put me _down_! Darling, this is decidedly undignified! Adaar!"

"Nuh-uh," was the irritatingly blasé response. "You spent three hours in the Tailors, two in the perfumery, another two-and-a-half at the cobblers, and I'm tired of shopping, or rather watching you shop. For me, Cass, yourself, and something you will try to inflict on Solas and be irritated when he wears it all of once. I'm not spending _four_ hours in the perfumery, like we did last time you dragged Josie and I to Val Royeaux. No matter _what_ you put on, you are still going to smell like blood, sweat, guts, the undead and demon-gore after a day or two in the field, and no one is going to smell it in the over-warm, overpoweringly scented hell that is a noble-infested function. Frankly, most perfume smells like the preservatives they mix in with the oils, anyhow, which is disgusting."

"Darling," Vivienne huffed, from her half-upside, and decidedly uncomfortably and undignified position slung over Adaar's broad shoulder, "not everyone has the sense of smell of a Qunari- ack!" The Inquisitor had deliberately bounced her, driving the boning in her corset into her side in a rather painful manner.

"I'm _Vashoth_ , Vivi. **I don't follow the Qun, and I never have, so I am neither qunari, nor Tal-Vashoth. Calling me either is like saying Orlesians, Anderfel tribesmen and Fereldans are the same. My race doesn't _have_ a collective name, my dear enchantress," Adaar said, a smirk audible in her voice as she marched through the Royal Market, towards their rented mansion.

"Sera! You're alright!"

"Not that I mind having my face squashed into your magnificent tits, Quizzy, but you're making it hard to breathe, yeah?" Sera mumbled, then pouted as Adaar hastily let go.

"I thought the dragon landed on you when it died!"

"Nope, all in one piece, if a bit scorched on my arse."

"Damn, Boos, that was fun! Can we find another one? Please?!" The response from Sera, Dorian, and the Inquisitor came in a resounding, horrified chorus.

"NO, Bull!" Sera thought that a nearly eight-foot tall giant, half-naked man with horns should _not_ be so good at puppy-eyes. It was disturbing.

"Warm, small, fragile in my arm. How can someone so small have such a big heart? What if he wears himself out, hurts himself trying to help others, taking on their pain? Worry like an aching muscle, mixed with soft fuzzy clouds of affection like a lamb... You worry about helping me, like I help others." Cole said, hat falling off of his head with how far back he had to tilt his head to meet Adaar's eyes. "You don't have to worry about me. I'm alright. I _like_ helping, it is me."

The woman sat, and held out her arms in invitation. The spirit-boy sat in her lap, and nestled into her arms, with a contented sigh and smile, as she took out her sewing kit to patch his hat.

"I worry about you, because you're my friend, Cole, because I care about you. It is part of being a friend, to worry about those close to you. It isn't something I can change, nor would I want to." Her voice was soft, fitting with the gentle dimness of the loft-corner Cole inhabited over the tavern.

"You worry about the others, too, but it isn't a hurt...not really. You protect those you care for, you like taking time to make them happy, like I do. You like to hug them to prove to yourself that they are here, real, alright. I like your hugs, they make me feel warm, safe, here. I like our ritual after coming back from the field, and the fighting, cuddling as you fix the holes in my hat, too." Adaar hummed contentedly, as she knotted the thread, and sat his hat to the side, brushing Cole's hair from his face.

"Tell me about what you've been doing to help people, please, Cole."

"Alright,"

"Why am I the one being dipped, here, Inquisitor?" Dorian chuckled, watching the scandalized, yet fascinated and titillated expression on the Orlesian courtier's faces, beneath the masks. The Empress Celene had invited the Inquisition to a ball on the anniversary of the foiling of Florianne's assassination attempt, and Adaar had dragged him to the dance floor.

"If you think you could dip me, _without_ dropping me, or resorting to magic, e my guest to take the lead, my dear fellow," Adaar chortled quietly, as they pressed closer than was strictly proper.

"And ruin the shock and scandal of the moment? Hardly," Dorian matched her smirk, as they executed some fancy Tevinter style footwork that required her to hold him flush to her body.

"I'm surprised that Cullen's face isn't betraying a desire to Smite me, for touching you so familiarly, actually," the mage chuckled.

"Please, he's far to principled to use templar abilities against you out of jealously, _if_ he felt it. Of course, the fact you're happily with Bull, and have made it quite clear that you'd be making the moves on _him_ if you were trying to horn in on us, might be part of it, as well."

"He is disgustingly noble, isn't he. I'd say _boring_ , if I hadn't walked in on you two that time.." The dance ended, and Dorian found himself dragged off the floor, with an arm tightly about his ribs.

"Dorian, my sweet, if you're trying to embarrass me, do remember who it is that managed to get you and Bull most of your 'toys', even explain some of them to him. I grew up in a mercenary company, after all, so there is very little about that topic that will discomfit me. Plus, yesterday was the seventy-second time I've walked in on you and Bull in a compromising potion in a semi-public location." the arm around Dorian tightened warningly, as they approached Cullen, who was, yet again, surrounded by a horde of lecherous nobles.

"Ow! Ribs! Maker, it has to be _you_ that is my best friend, and the jealous one..."

Blackwall had experienced more than a few of Adaar's rib-threatening hugs, and he considered himself fairly good at enduring them. This one, however...

"In-qui-sit-or..." he wheezed, wondering if he'd just lost a rib or two.

"Come on, we need to talk to Dagna and Harrit!" The Inquisitor squealed, actually _squealed_ like a little girl given a puppy. "It can't be just any ring, it has to be _perfect_ , with protective enchantments of course... Oh, I'm so happy for you and Josie!"

"Air!" He was set back on his feet, then before he could regain his balance, was being towed through the keep, towards the Undercroft.

"I haven't even gotten a ring yet, much less asked," he protested. Adaar spun to face him.

"Thom, you're an _idiot_ if you think she will turn you down. Leliana, Cass and I have been listening to her dither over whether or not it is proper for _her_ to propose, for weeks. SO shut the Void up, and design a ring for your lady, already!"

"Inquisitor!" Cassandra yelped, startled out of her brooding, over the massacre of all of the Seekers of Truth by the Promisers, and the Lord Seeker himself, by being lifted off the ground by one of the infamous Inquisitorial hugs. Despite the discomfort of the position, and the fact that her armor was digging into her, slightly, the warrior woman found herself relaxing into the comfort and support of the embrace, leaning on someone else's strength for once.

"That can't have been all of them, Cassandra. You weren't the only one to break off from Lucius' reign, and surely there were Seekers on detached assignments. We can sent out the word, and have Leliana's people look for them, invite them to help rebuild the order, reformed, like you dreamed."

"I-" Cassandra fought her own reticence when it came to dealing with her emotions. "That is... comforting to hear...Adaar." The beaming smile made forgoing the Inquisitor's title, for the first time, worth it.

"Krem! Thank- whoever- that you're alive!" The man grunted, as Adaar, trailing the Chief and the qunari contact, pounded up. For the first time, Krem was treated to what Varric had termed 'Hug-quisitorial embrace of doom', something he'd thought was an exaggerated name. It wasn't- his ribs beneath the creaking and deforming armor, ached at the tightness. Upon being released, Dalish, Stitches, Rocky and Skinner, the Inquisitor's other favored drinking-and-gambling-partners had to endure the same treatment, as she fussed over the small band of Chargers.

"Thanks for the save, Chief. Didn't even see the Venatori mages until the reinforcements swooped in to save our arses. Nice work by your people," Krem added to Gatt.

"They weren't mine," the elf grunted.

"Then whose mad ox-men were they? Chief?"

"Damn, Lieu-y Adaar! First packs of demons, now crazy 'Vint cultist mages, covering a Dreadnought run? You find us the best sodding fights! I haven't done that since I ran off rather than have my mouth sewn shut!" The cheerful bellow came from the robed Tal-Vashoth whose horns curled beside her head like a ram's.

"Shok! You crazy fire-spitting moron! Cut it a bit close, didn't you?" the Inquisitor bawled back, giving Krem the odd impression he was looking at a female version of himself and Bull.

"Shokrokar, now Captain of the Talo-Vaas Mercenaries, meet the Iron Bull, leader of the Bull's Chargers, and this is Krem- Lieutenant Cremissius Aclassi, his second."

"Should still be you, Sword-Eater, but you had to go and get some weird mark on your hand, and end up a holy religious icon of some mad human organization, Boss." The mage shook her head, and fixed a glare at the Chief "Bull's Chargers, huh? Nice outfit, for a _Ben-Hassrath_ spy. But Adaar says you've not tried to pull any Qun shit on her, and kept her hide intact, in bad situations, so we didn't mind taking out the _three_ _camps_ of Venatori on the coast that had been spotted by the qualaba over there, and _not reported to the Inquisition_ , despite the fact it was the _qunari_ proposing the alliance. Boss wasn't happy about that."

"Shok!" Adaar snapped, but the reprimand was half-hearted at best, her attention on the Chief and the bollocking he was giving the qunari-elf.

Harding was tough, and prided herself for rolling with whatever came at her. A drunk Inquisitor picking her up in a hug, and complimenting her hairdo, while trying to squeeze all the life out of her, wasn't something even she could take without a blink.

"Uh... thanks?" Rescue came in tor form of an amused King of Fereldan, his wife, and a smirking Cullen.

"Inquisitor, you wanted to meet Barkspawn, and her litter?"

"Puppies! I love puppies! Especially mabari puppies!" Harding was deposited on a table, set outside for the Springtide Festival, and treated to the sight of the Inquisitor, revered Herald of Andraste, Savior of the Empress, Conqueror of Adamant, Champion of the Faithful, Warrior Superb, giggling on the ground, frolicking with the half-dozen three-month-old mabari puppies that had toppled her in the first place, with the Defeater of the Blight, Warden-King Alistair, and the Commander of the Inquisition, as well as the sinister Sister Nightingale, joining in and cooing over the adorably ugly creatures. Harding shrugged and join them- no Fereldan worth the name could resist the begging of a mabari wanting love. Unsurprisingly, Cullen and the Inquisitor ended the first night of the festival with an imprinted puppy each.

"Damn it, Bull!" The man grunted as Adaar whirled and threw her arms around him, after tossing a more subtle pair of assassins, which he _hadn't_ spotted, and wasn't that embarrassing, off the wall.

"Inquisitor! Not AGAIN!" Came the irritated cry from the creepy shape-changing witch, in the garden. Arcane Adviser to the Empress or not, expert in weird not-quite-the-Fade-traveling-mirrors, or not, Bull did not trust her.

"A bit of WARNING _might_ be HELPFUL!" Adaar snapped, squeezing tighter. "That was Adder's Kiss, and Sleeping Death on those knives, _and_ saar-quamek! I barely got the last one before he severed your sodding spine, you MORON!" Her arms tightened as her face contorted in mixed anger and relief.

CRACK! Adaar let go, with a look of hock and horror, as Bull gasped and clutched his side at a depressingly familiar pain.

"Boss, you save me from assassins, just to break my ribs with a hug? That's just messed up," he joked, grimacing. That'd been at least two ribs... Bull made a mental note that Adaar was stronger than even most qunari warriors, that he should be careful if they ever wrestled, and to be sure to never worry her if within grabbing distance.

"I thought I didn't have to hold back, for once, damnit. Of course you'd joke about this- SOLAS! OR DORIAN! I NEED YOU UP HERE! IMMEDIATLY!" She bellowed in a voice trained to carry across the din of a packed battlefield.

"And now you're trying to make me deaf, too."

" _Bull!_ "

"You're too easy to tease, Boss."

"I'm setting Dorian to take care of you."

"That's just cruel! The man makes mother-hens seem neglectful!"

 **** Am I the only one bothered by the Iron Bull calling the Herald/Inquisitor 'qunari' when they meet? Or Tal-Vashoth later? He's Ben-Hassrath, the distinctions and importance of words would be obvious to him... this turned out more serious and less humorous than I was expecting**


	4. Solas- HOW!

"We're in the Fade" Adaar said, in a tone of amusement, which gave Solas a sudden sinking feeling. The taller woman had a penchant for surprising him; he never knew if she would react with a barrage of questions, teasing and mischief, or the mildly disappointed look and calm dressing down that made him feel small, young, and guilty. The broad, smug grin she sent him told Solas that _something_ had told her of his reaction, despite the fact he was certain his expression hadn't flickered.

"Disappointed that I'm not surprised?" her tone went for teasing this time. "Haven was never this empty, there is no scent of the smoke, snow, pine and incense that was everywhere, and I'm pretty darn sure that the sky wasn't this weird shade caught between Fade-green and blue, with no sign of the Breach or its scar." Solas was chagrined. He was the one with the wolf-sharp nose, and he forgot to add _smell_ to the dream...

"You are adept at seeing what lies below, in the Fade," was how he chose to respond out loud. Adaar waggled her ears outrageously at him.

"Prrrractice," she sang cheerfully, "Or did you think you were the only dream-walker mage in the Inquisition?"

"What?" It was a little more yelped than he would have preferred.

"Since I got this," a large grey hand was waved at him, familiar magic sending invisible tendrils to caress his mana, "I've had a far easier time deconstructing the traps demons try to set for me. Also the fact that a spirit calling himself Valor has taken to chatting with me occasionally, and reacts quite fiercely towards demons has kept them from being as persistent as they once were. Was a bit of a shock when I accidentally stumbled into Dorian's dreams," Adaar flushed a bit. "If you think he's always got his mind in the gutter from what he says... I'd've been quite happy never seeing that much of Bull in my life." Solas chuckled at her grimace. In conversation the Vashoth discovered that Bull had been the second child of a pairing bred twice- the first having been her mother.

"Anyhow, my dear bald elf, are the two of us asleep on the floor of your study? Or did you move us somewhere where we would be less of a tripping hazard? I can't imagine you would find it easy to move me yourself, unless you found some ancient elfy-magic that allows you to lighten me, or carry weights heavier than yourself." Solas coughed awkwardly.

"It was a form of directed sleep-walking, actually. We should discuss this when you- _wake up_."

A/N: Inspired by a conversation my sister and I had after my qunari inquisitor ended up in her bedroom after that sequence...


End file.
